The one that got away, p.1
The One That Got Away, page 1
part #1 of DI Heather Filson Series
THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY
DI HEATHER FILSON
BOOK 1
JD KIRK
For my wife, Fiona, who I
proposed to in my very first book
(She said yes, thankfully.)
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Afterword
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THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY
ISBN: 978-1-912767-73-1
Published worldwide by Zertex Media Ltd.
This edition published in 2023.
1
Copyright © 2023 by JD Kirk
The right of JD Kirk to be identified as the author of this
work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.
www.jdkirk.com
www.zertexmedia.com
PROLOGUE
DECEMBER 18TH, 1989
The pungent odour scorches her airways. Sizzles and pops in her nostrils. Burns all the way to the back of her throat. Harsh. Chemical. Toxic.
She gags, not on the stench, but on the filthy rag wrapped around her head, pulled tight across the corners of her mouth so it carves painful red welts into her cheeks. Her lungs cramp. Her stomach tightens, bringing up a hot wave of acid that she has no choice but to choke back down.
Pain sears itself across her wrists. Her arms are behind her, but she knows she’s torn the skin of her hands in her struggles to get free. She can still feel the blood oozing along her fingers.
There is blood above her eye socket, too, drying into her hair and what’s left of her eyebrow.
There was a blindfold, but she managed to shake that off, running her forehead back and forth across the rough ground until she worked the tightly tied material free.
The skin is torn and ravaged there, from where she rubbed, and rubbed, and rubbed against the stone floor.
And why? To what end? Wherever she is, it’s dark. Impossibly dark. As dark as it was beneath the blindfold.
Perhaps, she thinks, even darker still.
It’s cold, too. Bitingly so. She can’t see them, but she can imagine the shaky clouds of her breath as they come rasping in and out of her raw, damaged airways.
She screamed at first. Of course she did. She screamed when she roused from a sleeping nightmare into this waking one. The gag muffled the sound, but didn’t block it completely. And so, she screamed, and she kicked, and she thrashed there on the floor.
In the cold.
And in the dark.
She screamed, and she kicked, and she thrashed. She cried, and she shook, and she shivered.
Nobody heard. Nobody came.
And as she lay there, trembling and alone, she thought of her mum and her dad. Thought of how worried they’d be. How frantic. They’ll be out looking for her now. Her brother, too. Knocking on doors. Calling her name.
They’ll have called the police. There’ll be a hunt on. People will be searching.
No one has told her that any of this is happening. They don’t have to. She just knows it. Instinctively. Unshakably. She knows that people will be looking for her. Friends, relatives, neighbours, even strangers will all be out in force.
They’ll be coming for her, sooner or later. They’ll be coming to take her home.
A crack of light appears down low. Just a thin line at first, then it spreads, becoming a faint and insipid suggestion of yellow that paints itself on the concrete floor, oozing towards her like something liquid and alive.
The sound of an engine grows louder. A vehicle is approaching.
In the cold, and in the dark, she knows that her family will be searching for her.
But, as the light creeps closer, and the engine grows louder, there is something else she knows, too.
Instinctively.
Unshakably.
She knows she will never see any of them ever again.
ONE
THIRTY-FOUR YEARS LATER
Between the pain needling through her skull and the erection jabbing into her back, Heather Filson could tell that mistakes had been made. It was now just a question of magnitude.
She could hear him snoring away behind her, whoever he was. Snoring was good. Snoring meant she could get out of there without any awkward small talk, or suggestions of one more quickie for the road.
First, though, she’d need to find her clothes. That would involve opening her eyes, but she wasn’t quite ready for that yet. Opening her eyes meant facing the reality of where she was, what she’d done, and—more importantly—who she’d done it with.
Even with her eyes closed, though, the signs weren’t encouraging. The mattress beneath her felt lumpy and old, the sheet thin and bobbled against her bare skin.
The room smelled stale, like an old pair of wet running shoes. Notes of cheap beer and discarded fag ends were woven through it, along with the cloying sweetness of cannabis. The cheap resin variety, she thought. Not even the good stuff.
There was light coming from somewhere, tinting the darkness behind her eyelids. Daylight, she thought.
That was bad. It was early March in Scotland, so for the sun to be up it had to be at least eight o’clock. But the last few days had been overcast, threatening some late-season snow, which meant it was probably much later than even that.
Great. She was supposed to be at the station in Glasgow by half eight.
That would teach her to go out on a school night.
Neither the headache nor the prodding at her back seemed to be going anywhere. She couldn’t put things off any longer.
Heather peeled open her eyes, grimaced at the jarring brightness, and closed them again in a hurry. She pressed a thumb and the knuckle of a forefinger against her eyelids, massaged them until the aching eased off, then tried again.
This time, she was just about able to tolerate the discomfort, and the room came into a queasy sort of focus.
The first thing she saw was a movie poster. It was sideways, so it took her a moment to figure out which film the poster was promoting. Some shite from the Fast and Furious franchise, she eventually concluded, which did nothing to make her feel any more positive about the night before.
There was an overflowing ashtray and a couple of Tennent's cans on the bedside cabinet, which went some way to explaining the smell. There was also, to both her disgust and delight, a used condom. It reminded her of some dead deep sea creature—bloated and full at one end, flat and shrivelled at the other, and with a general sense of despair permeating the whole thing.
Still, at least one of them had been sober enough to take precautions.
The smell of the lager triggered memories of the night before.
She remembered the house feeling too small for her. Too confined. She’d gone out. The pub, definitely. She remembered being in there, knocking back a few drinks and a few suggestive comments from the other punters.
Had she put someone on their arse? Did she remember that? Some grubby wee bastard with wandering hands? Had that happened? A throbbing when she clenched her fist suggested it was a definite possibility.
From there, things became a bit hazier. She dimly remembered eating at Wimpy, then the thunder of noise and the claustrophobia of hundreds of hot bodies around her.
She’d hit The Garage, then. No great surprise, really. When it came to nightlife in Kilmarnock, it was that place or the Gala Bingo, and getting absolutely shitfaced and shagging a randomer were both generally frowned upon at the latter.
Although, that wasn’t to say they didn’t happen.
The smell of the bedside table was turning her stomach. Individually, all the elements on it were bad enough. Together, with her head pounding, her mouth dry, and the room starting to undulate around her, they were unbearable.
She looked away, and her eyes fell on another poster nearer the window.
This one was of a footballer. God knew who. She only figured out he was a footballer because he was wearing a tracksuit, held a ball under one arm, and had a twatty haircut that probably cost more than her first car.
Then again, her first car had only cost her fifty quid, so that wasn’t exactly saying much. It’d had mushrooms growing in the boot, and wouldn’t reverse, but it had still seemed like
Her eyes throbbed in protest as she steered them down the wall until they eventually settled on something troubling.
There was a skateboard. It was propped up against a shoddily built IKEA chest of drawers, which had two of its handles missing.
The underside of the board was turned to face the bed, and Heather found herself looking into the cartoon eyes of one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The one with the purple bandana, whatever the fuck his name was. DiCaprio, or something.
Slowly, she craned her neck, taking in the rest of the room. There was a big telly mounted on the wall, a gaming chair positioned in front of it, and an Xbox on a small table between the two. Empty game cases and stray disks lay scattered around.
There was a telescope by the window, though the closed curtains would’ve rendered it largely useless. A pair of binoculars hung from a hook a little further along the wall, ready to be grabbed in an emergency.
Quite what such an emergency might look like, Heather had no idea. But, at least he’d be looking at it close up.
In the corner, clothes were spilling out of a laundry basket shaped like a shark, its open mouth pointing to the ceiling so it looked like it was vomiting grubby boxers and dirty white socks out onto the floor.
The pain in her head intensified. The churning in her stomach switched up a gear.
Oh God.
Oh God, she’d shagged a teenager.
Heather reached an arm out from under the covers, fumbled on the floor until she found her clothes, then rolled out of bed, already wrestling herself into her underwear.
Behind her, the steady rattle of snoring snorted to a stop, and she frantically fought her way into her T-shirt, one eye already on the door.
Maybe she could still make it. Maybe she could still get out of there before—
“Hey.”
Fuck.
Caught.
She had no choice then but to face up to her mistake. She turned, teeth gritted, to look at the figure lying in the bed, his head propped up on one arm, his smooth, hairless torso exposed all the way to his belly button.
“Oh, thank Christ,” she ejected when she spotted the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, and the lines etched into his brow.
He was in his forties, at least. A grown man, despite what the room might suggest.
He smiled, incorrectly assuming the remark was a compliment. “Still like what you see, eh? Good. You certainly seemed to last night,” he oozed, and Heather felt her body instinctively convulse in disgust. “And you’re not so bad yourself, by the way, even without the old beer goggles.”
“Eh, cheers. Aye.”
She buttoned up her jeans and forced her feet into her trainers. She hadn’t even bothered to look for her socks. Their loss was a small price to pay if it meant getting the fuck out of there as quickly as humanly possible.
“So, uh, right,” she said, throwing a thumb back over her shoulder in the direction of the door. “I guess I’ll be getting off.”
“Already? You sure you don’t want breakfast?” he asked. “Or, maybe something… more substantial?”
He winked at her and lifted the covers, showing off both his erection and a potbelly that lay partly pancaked against the crumpled sheet beneath him.
Bile rose into Heather’s throat and burned as she swallowed it back down. She shook her head. Quite emphatically, too.
“No. You’re alright,” she said.
I’d rather claw out my own eyeballs.
“Cheers, for the offer, though.”
“You sure?” the would-be Lothario asked. He tensed his stomach muscles, and his erection twitched. “Little Dom’s awake and raring to go.”
A whole-body convulsion arched Heather’s back. The movement jolted her brain, shaking loose a memory from the night before.
Dom. Dominic. That was his name. She remembered his working it into a chat-up line.
“‘Hi, I’m Dom. But, if you’ll let me, I’d be more than happy to be your sub…’”
She’d laughed. Not at the line—who in their right mind would’ve laughed at that shite?—but at him, with his high hairline, saggy cheeks, and yellowed teeth. He was a good seven or eight years older than her, and it showed.
She thought she remembered telling him in no uncertain terms to fuck right off. And yet, here she was, full of regret, self-loathing, and blurry black holes where her memories should be.
A snake coiled in her gut. Heat prickled across her skin.
“Wait. Hang on a fucking minute,” she snapped at him. “Did you spike me?”
It was more of an accusation than a question. Dom sat up, his morning glory wilting away, his eyes widening in horror.
“What? No! God, no! Of course not! I walked you home. Remember? I met you outside the club. You were a bit… worse for wear, so I offered to walk you home.”
Something stirred in the murk of Heather’s hangover. The surge of anger she’d felt towards him redirected itself, turning inwards.
“But when we got there, you didn’t want to go in. You said we should go to my place, instead,” Dom continued. He smiled self-consciously, showing off his awful teeth. “You kissed me. Remember? You, eh, you grabbed my—”
“Alright. Alright. I get it,” Heather snapped, cutting him short.
“And then we—”
“I get the picture.”
Dom got off the bed, still naked. He moved towards her, arms open, offering a hug she wanted to be no part of.
“I’d never do anything like that to anyone,” he said. “Especially not you.”
“Right. Good. Glad to hear it.” Heather raised a hand to block him, her eyes scanning the room. “Is my jacket here?”
“Jacket? No, you didn’t have a jacket on,” Dom replied. “Were you wearing one when you left the house?”
“It’s freezing. Of course I was wearing one.”
She tugged at her T-shirt. It was a faded old thing from an Aerosmith tour that her Uncle Kenny had dragged her along to back in the late Nineties. She’d been thirteen or fourteen at the time. Her first gig. Nothing else she’d been to since had come close to matching it.
“You think I came out wearing just this?”
Dom shrugged. He didn’t appear remotely put out by his own nudity, even though the coldness of the room was starting to have a visible effect.
“Maybe you left it at the club?”
Heather sighed. “Aye. Maybe,” she conceded.
She put a hand on the door handle, then paused. She’d hoped to slip away without any of this, but now that they were both awake and upright, she felt she needed to say something.
‘Let’s never speak of this again,’ felt like an obvious one.
But then, though her memories were hazy, she thought she remembered his hand on her elbow as he’d guided her home. She could vaguely picture him saying goodbye to her at her house. He’d shaken her hand, she thought.
In the state she must’ve been in, she’d have been easy to take advantage of, but he hadn’t tried. She’d been the one to make the move.
Room decor aside, he’d at least earned himself some passing pleasantries.
“So, uh, thanks for…” She gestured vaguely, searching for an appropriate conclusion to the sentence. None presented itself, so she settled for, “…that.”
“Anytime,” he said, his voice a low, sensual purr. Or, an attempt at one, at least. “Do you want to get together later, maybe? Dinner?”
Something inside Heather cringed so hard it turned inside out. “Uh, no.”
